


the warmer the heart, the colder the fall

by heartequals (savvygambols)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Loki is a creep, Noir AU sorta, Prohibition AU, Twenties slang or the gross misuse of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savvygambols/pseuds/heartequals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sure, it wasn’t the kind of work he’d spent most of his childhood training for, but a job was a job and Clint could do worse than work at Shield, New York City’s foremost speakeasy, for Nick Fury, the man who ran half of New York without lifting a finger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the warmer the heart, the colder the fall

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a noir thing for eternal_elenea's [noir comment ficathon](http://eternal-elenea.livejournal.com/102733.html) except this is less noir and more Gatsby because I fail at noir. If this was 15k, though, I promise you, it'd be all Marlowe and hot LA nights and inappropriate sexual tension with witnesses (oh no, now I have ideas no no no help). 
> 
> For callmebombshell's [prompt](http://eternal-elenea.livejournal.com/102733.html?thread=484429#t484429): _anything based on[these pictures](http://no-more-virtuous.tumblr.com/post/25561217417)_. I am helpless when faced with Jeremy Renner in a hat, okay?

Another night, another attempt on his life by Coulson. Clint swallowed the urge to spit the drink out, then swallowed the drink. It burned going down and kept burning. He glared at Coulson. “Coulson, what the hell is this?”

Coulson shrugged, impassive as always. “Don’t look at me, boy. Selvig calls the Tesseract, won’t tell anyone what it’s made of. Drink a full glass of it and it’ll show you truth and beauty.” Coulson smirked. “So he says.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Clint. He looked down at the bartender who was currently leaning across the bar, chatting up some dame in a dark jacket and green scarf. Selvig pushed the blue-colored drink into her hand. Clint shook his head. “He’s gonna kill our clientele.”

“He’s a disgraced scientist,” said Coulson. “He’s gotta get his kicks somehow.” He turned around, back to the floor, resting his elbows on the railing. He took a sip of his own drink, something that was a much safer shade of clear. Clint looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “What’re you doing here anyway? Where’s Fury?”

“Mr. Fury is preparing to the leave country,” said Coulson. “He’s got a lead on a distillery and wants to set up a runner. I’m going with him. We’re leaving tomorrow morning on the first ship out.”

“Gonna catch some sun, huh?” asked Clint. “Why are you here?”

Coulson reached into a pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. He shook them at Clint. “You’re in charge ‘til we come back.” He held the keys out. “Don’t burn down the place while we’re gone. Don’t dry us out. Don’t let any cowboys, dippies or grifters in, we’ve got a reputation to maintain. And for god’s sake, first word of a copper, you shut this place down and get out. If we’re not back in three weeks, move down to the building on seventh.”

Clint stared at him. “Yes sir,” he said, lip curling. “Wasn’t aware this was my first night guarding this place, but all right. I’ll try to be a big boy.”

Coulson frowned again. “This is serious, Barton. Mr. Fury is entrusting you with his baby. This speakeasy is the cornerstone of his empire. You let him down, he’ll do worse than kill you.”

A cheer went up from the back of the room. Clint and Coulson leaned over the railing to look down at the floor. “Barton,” said Coulson with a groan, “can you not teach that dumb blonde at the door to recognize Stark?”

Clint gave a small salute to Stark as he crossed the dancefloor for the bar. Stark saluted back. “Thor does recognize Stark, sir. Why do you think he lets him in?”

Coulson gave him a withering look. “Just don’t do anything stupid. Mr. Fury may be out of the country, but he’ll still find a way to end you.” He drained his glass and shoved the keys into Clint’s hand.

“Send me a postcard!” called Clint. Coulson flipped him the bird as he disappeared down the steps towards the back exit.

Clint tucked the keys into his pocket, smiling. Coulson wouldn’t believe him, but he loved this place as much as Fury did. Sure, it wasn’t the kind of work he’d spent most of his childhood training for, but a job was a job and he could do worse than work at Shield, New York City’s foremost speakeasy, for Nick Fury, the man who ran half of New York without lifting a finger.

Clint took another sip of his drink and choked on it. He could hold his alcohol, but some of their patrons were a bit soft around the liver. This had to stop before any of their patrons died. He leaned over the railing, waving at Selvig to get his attention. Selvig held up his hands. Clint held his glass up, then slashed his hand in front of his neck and jerked a thumb over his shoulder, the international sign for _I’ll kill you and leave your body out for Stark to harvest and sell if you keep serving this drink._ Selvig frowned, but swept the bar clear of any glasses with blue liquid in them, pouring them all back into a glass jug and storing the jug under the sink, much to the dismay of Stark. Clint sipped more of his drink. No sense in wasting liquor, especially in days like these. God knows when they’d get those damn teetotalers out of Congress.

He scanned the room, walking around the balcony to get a better look at the floor. Thor was leaning against the door, looking pleased with himself. Thor was a good man and Clint liked him. They nodded at each other. The cellist had just cleared out for the night and Natasha, part-time musician and full-time flapper, was settling down at the piano, ready to tear the place up. A woman as rich and dangerous as her didn’t have play piano in a speakeasy, but he suspected she liked to be a pain in Fury’s ass. He winked at her as he rounded a corner of the balcony and she smirked up at him. She had the kind of voice that made men fall in love and he’d joined her at the piano for a song or two before. They sounded good together. He liked Natasha too.

The speakeasy wasn’t particularly busy that evening. The regulars were lined up against the bar. There were some fly boys clumped up around a table against the wall and the usual crowd of flappers were giggling in the corner. The dancefloor had emptied during the silence between Natasha and the cellist, but it’d fill up soon enough. Stark and his entourage were spread out across a couple of tables at the edge of the dancefloor. Stark had three bottles on the table already. He had an arm around the lovely Ms. Potts—Clint tipped his hat at her and she smiled up at him—and was filling up a glass for a nervous man on his other side. Clint squinted. It looked like Dr. Banner, one of the most revered and reclusive academics in the country, but what the hell would he be doing in Shield with Tony Stark, one of the loudest and most liquored-up academics in the world?

A quiet cough distracted him. He whirled around. A man in a dark coat and green scarf stood behind him. Clint frowned. “You’re not supposed to be up here.”

“You’ve got a good vantage point up here,” said the man. He had an English accent and a soft smile. He glided up to the railing and leaned against it. “Look at them all.”

“Sir,” began Clint, but he stopped. This man had to be the dame Selvig had been talking to, or else Clint was going crazy. He looked down at the bar. Selvig raised a toast to him, a glass filled with blue. Clint looked at the man. The man held a glass of the same liquor, Selvig’s “Tesseract” or whatever he was calling it. “To you, Mr. Barton,” he said. He winked at Clint and downed half the glass.

Clint, not to be outdone by a patron he’d never seen before, knocked back half his glass and spent the next several minutes trying not to pass out. When he finally stopped coughing, he found the man smiling at him. “Sir,” Clint said again. His head felt light and his limbs felt heavy. “How’d you get up here?” he said stupidly. His temple throbbed.

The man ignored him. He threw his glass over the edge of balcony. Clint followed the arc of the glass and caught a brief glimpse of Natasha standing up and Thor crossing the dancefloor with Stark at his side, both men looking up at him, before the man took his chin and turned Clint’s face towards his. “Clint Barton,” the man murmured, rubbing a thumb across Clint’s jaw. “The master assassin. I’ve followed you, you know. I’ve seen your work. You are the best in your field. And,” he mused, dropping his hand, “you have heart.”

The glass shattered against the ground and it sounded like the sweetest kind of music. In front of him, the man shone as if he were made of light. Clint looked down at his hands, which had gone cold and which shone as if they, too, were lit up from inside. He looked up at the man. The man smiled gently. “You were made for greater things, Mr. Barton,” said the man. He waved a hand at the floor. “This place…this is a playground. Wouldn’t you rather have a kingdom?”

Clint stared at him, found he couldn’t do much else. The man was bright, so bright, so golden and filled with light, that his silhouette seemed to shimmer. The world behind him had turned blue. The man took one of Clint’s hands. He laced their fingers together and pressed their hands over Clint’s heart. “I am Loki,” he said. “I am burdened with glorious purpose.” 

Clint blinked heavily at him.

“Drink, Clint,” said Loki. Clint drank.


End file.
